


Orns of a Tactician

by silberstreif



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Dark, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Moral Dilemmas, Pre-Earth Transformers, War, reupload
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7538623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silberstreif/pseuds/silberstreif
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prowl is logical, loyal and lonely. Most see in him an emotionless tactician, who does not feel anything as he sends soldiers to their death. Jazz may discover that there is more to the SIC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Isolation

**Author's Note:**

> Reupload from ffnet: Took a while, but after I noticed I've started really preferring AO3 over ffnet... well, better to move everything. I will not take the story down on ffnet.  
> Prowl and Jazz will never develop a relationship beyond friendship... and even that might take a while.
> 
> The story has currently 9 chapters, which will all be uploaded here.  
> Warning: It is also currently on HIATUS, but not abandoned. Yeah, not given up here yet.
> 
> Beta: taralynden, Starfire201

**Orns of a Tactician**

**-**

**Isolation**

 

Laughter could be heard outside of the rec room of Autobot headquarters in Iacon. He knew that one could meet mechs at any time of the orn there, trying to forget the outer world and its gruesome war. Energon flowed freely, friends met and some, few became more than that...

Prowl sped up and walked past the door. This was not his area; he had duties which needed to be performed. The new data from Polyhex was more than worrying and their spies at Decepticon base D89/2 had probably been exposed. Not to mention the rumours about a new kind of weapon from Shockwave.

On the other hand, when had Shockwave ever not had a new weapon?

The corridors around him were empty. No laughter any more. Even his steps were silenced by an expensive carbonate floor. Here was the place they worked and determined the fate of the Autobots. In front of a high door at the end of the white corridor, he stopped. He had reached his destination, his office, the very centre of the tactical department.

Lamps flared up as he stepped into the room and immersed everything in a bright, hard light. They had been applied in such a way that the furniture left no shadows at all. A security measure against assassins.

But today everything seemed to be okay. Without further waste of time, he began with his work.

Orns later, his duties at the Department of Science led him back the same way. The laughter felt like a slap in the face after all the silence. Though this time it subsided and he could hear voices.

"...and then I just looked at the 'con and said: 'Hey, ever heard of tactical advantage?'"

His steps paused. He knew that voice; it belonged to his student, Trailbreaker. He hadn't known that the young mech followed such recreational activities. Especially not now, as the tactical department was swamped with work! Had Trailbreaker no understanding of responsibility?

But no, he had seen how utterly exhausted his student was. Not only physically, but mentally. Had it not been he himself who sent Trailbreaker home? It was not his concern how his student found balance again, as long as he appeared in optimal constitution at work again.

Autobot civil rights, privileges of the superior, paragraph 34 b.

The Department of Science awaited his report.

Breems later, he returned to his own office just to see his chair taken.

"Jazz", he greeted coolly. "What can I do for you?"

With a grin the saboteur leaned forward and braced his elbows on the desk. "Hey, come on, can't I visit my friends now and then?"

"We are not friends."

The grin vanished as if it had never been there. "Of course not. I'm here because of my two agents. What's up with the rescue mission?"

He had not forgotten this mission request, had calculated everything multiple times. "They have no critical data and we don't know their exact whereabouts or situation. A rescue is not recommended."

"You really just want to leave them there? They are being tortured and you know it!" Jazz's visor hid his optics, but even without them Prowl could see the rage of his colleague.

"Yes. But we would risk too much."

Jazz leaped to his feet. "Risk? It's an insecure outpost. They wouldn't even realize what was happening before it's too late!"

Maybe. But certainly they had increased their guards after they had found those two spies. Additionally, the possibility of a trap or an ambush existed. And how had their cover been leaked anyway? Too many unknowns to risk the lives of Autobots for it, especially as it was unknown if they were still alive or not. No, it wasn't worth it.

"I will not give permission for a rescue mission, Jazz."

Without Prowl's approval, without tactical backing, Prime would never agree to such a mission. The saboteur clenched his hands.

"Are your comrades nothing to you? Do you even know their names?"

Of course he knew their names, history and skills, just as with every other 'bot he ever gave a mission. "Moonblast and Barrel."

Against Prowl's expectations, Jazz only got angrier. His face showed his disgust.

"You know them and still you are willing to let them get tortured? Your spark must have extinguished a long time ago!"

An insult which he had heard often before... nevertheless he answered with more emphasis than needed: "I can't risk more lives."

"Sure." Jazz went around the desk and stopped in front of the tactician. "If it helps your conscience to believe that."

"It is the truth."

But the saboteur didn't seem to be listening any more. Silently, without deigning to look at Prowl, he left the room. Only the sharp hiss of the door destroyed the painful silence.

Prowl could not stop the sagging of his doorwings. Moonblast and Barrel, two additional names on a list already too long.

He sat down at his desk and continued with his work.

Orns later, he discovered that the energon distributor on his floor was broken. Without a doubt had one of the resident pranksters thought it hilarious to replace all energon with a green and bubbly substance. For better or worse, he would have to get his fuel from the rec room.

This time, he heard not only laughter, but music and many different voices, too. He hesitated, it seems like a party had just started. However, he needed energon and his tank signalled alarming levels. It would be illogical not to go in.

He stepped through the doors and into the rec room. It was as if he had stepped into a different world. Coloured lights cut through the twilight of the room, turning everything softer and less real. The room was stuffed with Autobots of which one after another saw him. The conversations slowly died out.

He could feel their optics as he walked through the crowd which divided silently in front of him. Huffer, Slicer, Kup, Grindor... No one looked into his optics. No one spoke to him. Lonely floated the beat of the music, but the party was frozen.

Silently, he took his energon cube and went back to the entrance.

No friendly gesture in this sea of Autobots. Prowl knew, he was an invader into their small, fragile world of peace and oblivion. He was unwanted.

And still, just once he wanted to be a part of the crowd and to forget...

The door closed behind him and as if the ban was lifted, conversations started anew.

… to forget that it was he who decided with calculations, facts and recommendations who lived and died. But for the other Autobots he was nothing more than a walking memory of all lost comrades, of daily missions which bore his signature and the war in general.

On the way back he met Jazz, who was apparently on this way to the party. Normally they would greet each other, exchange a few friendly words, but this time Prowl was ignored. Lost in thought he gazed after the saboteur.

Finally he forced himself to move on, overly aware deep down that he was missing the party of the vorn and probably Prime himself was invited.

Back in his office he read the newest information which had come in. Among the reports was one of a small Autobot outpost. Two corpses had been found, identification was under way.

Prowl didn't wait for results and took two forms with the header "Death Entry" from the lowest drawer. Carefully he wrote the names in and searched for the addresses of relatives:

"With our deepest regret we have to inform you..."

Someone had to do it.


	2. Calculation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who haven't already checked the rest out on ffnet.... ;) 
> 
> And a big Thank you to everyone who left a review here or on ffnet, who enjoyed the story all those years ago or discovered it right now. Thank you!
> 
> Beta: taralynden and Starfire201

**Orns of a Tactician**

**-**

**Calculation**

 

When Prowl entered the room, he noted in annoyance that he was the first to arrive even though the meeting was supposed to begin in two klicks. It seemed that his colleagues would be late once again.

Instead of wasting the time, he took his normal place at the right where Prime would sit and began to check his data. While alone each piece may seem insignificant, together they painted a very different picture. The correlation of this probability program showed a significant chance of an enemy troop movement involving more than 300 Decepticons. This was a force which was large enough to attack a Autobot stronghold.

During his 852nd calculation of possible targets, Red Alert entered the room.

"Good morning, Prowl."

"Good morning." He put his datapads aside. "Did you get the required security data for all bases in quadrants Delta-34 and Zeta-11?"

Red Alert looked at him irritated. "Of course. And I checked them for security gaps, reviewed the last logs about hacker attacks and spoke with the officers in charge while pretending to do a regular security check."

Prowl almost smiled. He liked working with the Security Director, one of the few Autobots who shared his work ethic.

"Very good," he praised him and meant it.

His subordinate was surprised for a moment, but seemed pleased and began to talk about a new security system he was developing. It was a good system, designed to secure data bases and information in a base even under a direct data hack.

One by one Ratchet, Perceptor and Ultra Magnus arrived. They took no part in the discussion of improved security against data hacks in personal quarters and just sat down.

Prowl couldn't understand their lack of interest. In these times security was paramount and while he supposed that his tactical department was suffering the most under enemy attacks, Soundwave had tried to get into other data bases as well. They were lucky that Red Alert was on their side in this war.

Exactly at the moment the meeting should begin, the door opened and Prime entered. Behind him came his bodyguard, friend and director of the weapons arsenal, Ironhide, and also Jazz who greeted everyone but Prowl with a smile.

"Sorry," said Prime. "Jazz came to me with urgent news. Everyone, take a seat and let's begin now." He remained standing at the head of the table. A holo-picture of two bots appeared at its center. "This is Moonblaster and Barrel, two agents we lost contact with and whose deactivated bodies were identified an orn ago. Jazz, would you please take over from here?"

"With pleasure, Prime." Jazz waved at the picture. "To make a long story short, they were busted, Prowl denied a rescue mission, they died." That he hadn't yet forgiven Prowl was obvious to all present. The tactician forced himself not to react.

"But we still don't know why their cover was blown and that's the problem. Other agents report that cleansings are being performed. And they're not picky; if they suspect someone they torture and execute them immediately." He made a face. "That's the situation. We think that the Decepticons are planning something and want to kill all our spies for that reason. Only what, I don't have a clue."

"May I interrupt?" said Prowl. "My data confirms this. There are hints of Decepticon troop movements in multiple quadrants. They're inconspicuous, but if you add them all together, we may be dealing with around 300 Decepticons."

This was serious news. Prime looked from one lieutenant to another. He was clearly worried. "Do you already have an idea what the target could be?"

Jazz shrugged, "Something they need flyers for."

That eliminated many bases. Prowl started his calculations anew. When Prime looked at him, he stopped for a moment, and concluded with the data available:

"Quadrants Delta-34 and Zeta-11 seem to be most probable at the moment. Red Alert has already examined security there."

Jazz looked angrily at the security director, who flinched, then at Prowl: "Hey, if you already know so much, why don't you send the data over? Or do you want to let more of my people die?"

The accusation hurt, nevertheless he did his best to answer professionally: "My data are only probabilities and this meeting was scheduled anyway."

"Okay," Ultra Magnus interrupted the beginning dispute. "Red Alert, what did you find out?"

Not much, as it turned out. Some possible targets appeared to be true fortresses, while others where appallingly vulnerable. Those at the table decided quickly that Red Alert should implement enhanced security measures in the worst ones. The Security Director only sighed as he accepted the new work.

This discussion was succeeded by the evaluation of the medical care in the quadrants, which Ratchet described as insufficient. Prowl upgraded his assessment automatically into "adequate, but improvable".

Thereupon Ironhide and Perceptor presented a short overview about the weaponry of the bases, followed by Ultra Magnus who consented to send several task forces into the quadrants. Something, the tactician strongly supported.

"All the same, we need more info," Jazz said energetically. "Let me send my people in."

"Into a high-risk-infiltration," Prowl remarked dryly.

The saboteur gave him a scathing look. "Yes. Not every mission can be as safe as you are behind your desk."

Prime hesitated. "Are those missions really necessary?"

"Yes!", his TIC shouted.

"Yes," Prowl supported. He observed amused, that Jazz looked completely surprised for a nanosecond. "As was already said, more data is required."

"So now you see reason?", Jazz said, but was ignored by everyone in the room for the sake of peace.

"Then I suppose it has to be," said Optimus Prime and looked sternly at his lieutenants. „But none of our agents are to go into the field without tactical backing."

"Gotcha."

"Affirmative, Prime."

"Good. Are there any other points on today's agenda?"

Perceptor looked at his list. "After a careful analysis of the last fifteen damage reports in the Science Departement and a valuation on site, I estimate that Wheeljack needs new lab equipment – again."

"And a new processor, while he's renovating," snarled Ratchet.

After the meeting was finished and the others began leaving, Prowl invited the saboteur into his office to coordinate their forces further. But the chief of Intelligence scrutinized him coldly from head to toe and remained silent, until Prowl's doorwings jerked nervously.

"I don't understand you, Prowl. First you refuse a rescue mission during which I could have gathered the necessary information, then you support nearly the same mission in front of Prime. Are you developing a conscience or what?"

This time Prowl was the surprised one. "The probabilities didn't justify a rescue operation."

"But they justify these infiltrations which are at least as dangerous?" Jazz moved a step towards him, until he was standing directly in front of him. His visor prevented Prowl from seeing any of his emotions.

Instinctively he tried to back away, but was stopped when he felt the wall just behing him. "The circumstances have changed. A potential large-scale Decepticon attack threatens considerably more Autobots."

"And Moonblaster and Barrel weren't in danger? Didn't they deserve at least an attempt to save them?", the Intelligence chief asked quietly.

Prowl froze. He hadn't been able to give his approval. Not at the price of other lives, other equally good and loyal Autobots. He still could not. But Jazz's words rang true as well. They touched on the dream he was fighting and preserving the lives for.

He averted his eyes from the visor that only showed his own reflection. A feeling, as burning hot as a ball of molten iron, spread in his Spark. Finally, his own convictions let him mutter the condemning words:

"They did."

The saboteur gazed at him for a few more nanoseconds, then backed off and turned around.

"I'll see you in your office in five breems."

In the now empty meeting room Prowl sank into his chair again. On the table lay his calculations, columns and lines, figures and facts, determining what could be and what not. Just why did it now seem to be so insufficient?


	3. Demotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes have consequences, often for more than just one person and sometimes not always bad ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: Starfire201

**Orns of a Tactician**

**-**

**Demotion**

 

To his right lay datapads neatly stacked; to his left was a data storage device, salvaged out of the deactivated body of an agent less than an orn ago. Mechs on both sides of the war had given their spark for it, just so it found its way on his desk.

And even though he knew that, Prowl could only look at the empty chair in front of his desk, which had been filled by Jazz until a few klicks ago.

The first of their meetings was awkward at best, a disaster at worst. In the three meetings afterwards a routine of a sort set in, that was shaped by icy politeness. Even Prowl didn't need to convert hundreds of facts into a statistic, in order to know that their cooperation was a farce. Their departments didn't get in each other's way; the agents received their tactical plans, yes, but that was only the absolute minimum. There was no exchange of ideas, no comparison of conjectures and opinions. Even when Prowl raised things Jazz had criticised without hesitation in the past, the saboteur kept quiet.

After four meetings Prowl could openly admit it to himself, that he missed the Jazz from before. The Jazz, who sometimes brought energon cubes to their conversations, who talked about funny situations, who treated him like any other mech.

Did their disagreement really change this much for Jazz? Prowl didn't understand it, even though he comprehended his moral critique in all its facets.

He tried to be friendly, putting a chair into his office and attempting to engage in small talk. His attempts failed. He couldn't manage to speak about any other topic besides work. He had no friends, didn't know anything about the newest rumours and was clueless about another of Jazz' interests, music.

At the third meeting he finally asked about the other agents. Partly, because he was really concerned about them and their mission to constitute information for him. Partly, because he wanted to show that every Autobot was important to him.

Jazz' answer was short:

"They do their work. We have no losses yet. Do you need specific information?"

No, thank you, he didn't.

At today's meeting he wanted to talk openly to Jazz. It failed the moment as the saboteur stormed into the office and presented the data storage together with the message that more operatives had died. This time not through Prowl's decision, but for the sake of information he had demanded.

Rarely had the tactician felt as helpless as the moment he saw the saboteur's withdrawn face. Again agents had died; again Prowl had been the trigger. Again had Jazz sacrificed his mechs on account of Prowl's tactical arguments.

All he could do was to accept the device with a quiet, sparkfelt "thank you". Jazz then turned and left the tactical office as if on the run.

All that remained was only the tiny data storage device, stolen out of the deepest areas of the Decepticons. It was round and grey, essentially utterly unremarkable. With trepidation he took it in hand, turned it, once, twice.

Were these data really worth the lost soldiers?

He connected the memory device with his tactical office computer. In front of him holograms of dataunits started to hover in the air, glyphs and graphics, maps and long text files traversed through the room. An organized analysis would take orns, maybe longer. Time, he didn't have.

But the work would distract him at least.

With growing dread, he realized that he was reading the confirmation of his worst fears. Hundreds of Decepticon soldiers were marching, nearly every seeker and triple changer was put into standby position, or had already been relocated to garrisons near Typhern. Far worse though were the hints of Shockwave's new weapon; its testing phase was near completion and the absolute certainty of victory could be read between the lines of the messages of high-ranking Decepticons.

His first projections portrayed the grim picture of a major offensive with no holds barred. The battle would outclass everything of the last few vorns. They would have to act quickly and massively, if they wanted to keep Typhern.

Swiftly he sent an encrypted message with the highest priority to every officer in Iacon and to Prime: Meeting, Urgency level One, at the end of this orn, compulsory attendance.

With this done, he turned to figures of their own troops and began to calculate requirements of the force the Autobots would need. The list was long, hundreds of names and lives he would send into battle.

Only a few breems into this work the internal comm signalled a message. "Red Alert to Senior Battle Tactician Prowl."

Distracted, he stopped his calculations. Red Alert never disturbed him for nothing. "Prowl here. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. But I for you. Smokescreen is playing Black Jack in the rec room as we speak."

For a moment Prowl had the irrational desire to disconnect from the internal communication system, to leave his office and to take all vacation that had accumulated over long vorns of war. Obviously nothing could go right this orn.

"Thank you. I will take care of it."

"Good." Without a further word Red Alert terminated the connection

Why couldn't Smokescreen just abandon his gambling? Prowl had prohibited it, had disciplined him and yet... A gambling addicted Junior Tactician was worthless. According to Autobot civil rights he should demote Smokescreen on suspicion alone. But they already had so few tacticians that every loss would tear a hole, that couldn't be filled any more. That was the only reason why he had been able to defend his student until now, but the excuses had had worn out. Red Alert's evidence on tape was enough for the sergeants, who thought the root of all evil in the Autobot army was to be found in the tactical offices, to force a demotion. And with his new data he knew where a freshly demoted tactician would be sent: Typhern.

Someone who played with lives wouldn't find mercy even in Optimus Prime's optics. But Prowl believed in Smokescreen, in his potential and that he would never risk other Autobots for a gamble. He had to do something.

* * *

Only a few metres away, around a corner, was the busy Corridor Twelve, one of three main arterial roads of Iacon. It connected apartment blocks Eight to Eleven with headquarters, the hospital and the workshop area with which many unofficial shops were affiliated.

Prowl seldom if ever left headquarters. It offered the Autobot High command everything it could need and was designed as an independent system, in order to serve as a last option of retreat. A possibility for which Prowl worked tirelessly to avoid. A welcomed side effect was that bots like Prowl, who were high-risk targets, received the best security possible.

Still, only half an orn after the emergency meeting with Prime and the other officers he stood here. At the edge of Iacon, in a narrow, twisting back alley of Corridor Twelve, that ended in front of a grey, blank door.

The tactician was all too aware, that this door was one of the few to be able to keep up with the security systems of his own office. He didn't doubt for an astrosecond, that he had been noticed a long time ago and was monitored since then. Perhaps even from the moment he had left headquarters on. He knocked.

Soundlessly the door glided open and he entered. Behind him the door closed instantly. The room reminded him vaguely of the rec room in headquarters. Several seating accommodations were spread seemingly haphazardly; however if analysed they formed cosy corners to talk and worked just as effectively as superb shields against enemy attacks. Doors led away, deeper into the secret department. At the moment the room was empty, except for one single person, who lay completely relaxed across an armchair.

"A rare guest," greeted the mech coolly.

That was true. Prowl was one of the few outsiders, who knew about the existence of this hideout, but he hadn't been here before. Normally only two kinds of mechs entered these facilities: Members of Special Operations and Decepticons, who were never seen again.

"Thank you, for letting me in, Jazz." It was an act of faith, a first step to his goal. This was Jazz's territory, just as the tactical offices were Prowl's.

The saboteur made a casual hand movement, as if to dismiss the issue. "Had to. If you dare to leave HQ, than it must be important."

His intonation left no doubt, that it better was important. Prowl hesitated. He could still go with his pride intact. For a moment his doorwings fluttered, then he pulled himself together.

"The importance is debatable," he confessed. Better be truthful, direct, than to enter mental games. "May I sit down next to you? I've brought energon cubes."

Jazz froze for a moment, then nodded. "Sure, it's all free."

Free, because the room had probably been cleared only klicks before he knocked.

He took the armchair at the right of the saboteur. When he took the cubes out, Jazz watched every single movement. Suddenly Prowl asked himself, if Jazz trusted him enough to drink unsampled energon that Prowl had provided.

"It's normal Energon, nothing special. I didn't know what you like."

"Normal is good." But Jazz didn't move to take his cube from the table. "So, what's so bad, that you don't even want to talk about in front of the others at the meeting?"

Prowl wished himself back into his own office. But he had to do this, for Smokescreen's sake. "I need a personal favour from you."

"From me?" The surprise was evident.

"Yes."

Jazz scrutinized him silently for a klick and moved smoothly into a normal posture on the armchair. "That's a first," he said dryly. "I hope you know me better than to ask for something illegal."

Prowl gave him an angry look. "I want a favour, not a contract kill."

"Just saying." Jazz leaned back. "What else could our chief tactician need so desperately, that he wants a favour from me?"

"Do you know my student, Smokescreen?"

"Praxian, intelligent, best friend of Tracks, a few disciplinary issues, good gambler?"

"Yes. The last point is a problem." Prowl grasped one energon cube and clutched it with both hands. It was bitter to talk about his own failure. "I tried to discourage him from gambling, unsuccessfully. Today he played Black Jack in the rec room and I can't ignore it any longer. There is too much evidence, too high a risk for addiction. If I can't find a solution fast, I have to suspend him from all his duties and demote him."

Jazz' visor got darker. "That would be his death sentence."

Prowl nodded sorrowfully. Praxians were envied for their doorwings, as much they were a disadvantage on the battlefield. They were excellent targets for all firearms and a few hits at them could put a Praxian into stasis, or even deactivate him through high energon loss. If he demoted Smokescreen in the next orns, he would send a relatively battle inexperienced Praxian directly to the front lines of Typhern.

"A death sentence in all but the name."

"And how exactly can I of all people help you?"

"Smokescreen is unfit to work further as a regular tactician." It hurt to say this about his own student. "But his file says he was considered for Spec Ops, before he became a tactician."

"You want to make him into a spy?", asked Jazz with incredulity.

"No." Smokescreen knew too many secrets to ever be spy. "I want to reassign him as the personal tactician of Spec Ops. He has the needed abilities as a tactician, further, his sociable behaviour, his inclination to take risks and his basic psychological knowledge fit with your department."

Even now Smokescreen took over half of the tactical planning for secret missions upon himself, though Prowl counter-checked every single draft. Beneath Jazz' leadership more eyes would watch his private episodes and would intervene if necessary. But above all Smokescreen's main reason for his gambling was the desire to prove his worth, just because he wasn't as good as Prowl or even the more inexperienced Trailbreaker in many areas.

Those were the positive consequences which induced him to take this drastic step. He could however see from the tense face of Jazz, that he thought about the other side of this deal, too:

"That's all good and fine, but you would lose your student." The spy leant forward, supported himself with one hand on the table, until he was face to face with Prowl. He only withstood with difficulty the desire to back away. "More still, Smokescreen would be within my authority and you wouldn't see a single Spec Ops mission from this moment on. You wouldn't know what I do, you couldn't control us..."

They wouldn't work together on small missions any more. With the loss of power and control came the unspoken risk, that there wouldn't be a single mech outside of Spec Ops to ensure that they kept the moral obligations of being Autobots. Of course, this was only the theory.

"Please, I know that I never saw anything you didn't want me to see."

A fleeting, bitter grin, then Jazz moved away from him. Prowl had the remote feeling that he had won something, but couldn't say what.

"And you would owe me a favour," added the saboteur as if Prowl had never said anything.

"Yes."

Jazz looked as if he had turned into a helicopter. "Smokescreen really means something to you."

"Of course. He is my student." And Prowl took care of his students.

Jazz shook his head, seemingly amused, although his words were far away from such an emotion: "You surprise me. Obviously you think sometimes beyond your loved statistics."

A banter to entice an emotional reaction out of Prowl and it didn't fail to have its desired effect. Too fresh was the vocalised insult a few orns ago. The doorwings raised aggressively, he answered sharply:

"I am not a sparkless drone, Jazz, whatever else you like to believe."

For the first time in their conversation Jazz broke optic contact. "I never believed that." Not an apology, but a step into a new direction. "If it had been Smokescreen instead of one of my agents, would the decision have stayed the same?"

"Yes. Personal emotions are never a factor in my tactical decisions." But afterwards he would probably have visited the party and would have gotten drunk until he reached oblivion, despite the looks, a missing invitation and all the rumours such an action would create.

It was quiet for a moment, then, slowly, Jazz smiled. "Send Smokescreen to me later. If his addiction to gambling isn't treatable, I'll find something else for him to do."

Relief flooded Prowl. He did it. Smokescreen was safe. "Thank you."

The agent stood, and shrugged indifferently. "A favour is a favour."

Of course. And in his business favours were the only currency that counted. A favour from the Senior Battle Tactician himself was probably too good to even think about a refusal. And that had been exactly the reason why Prowl had offered it. It was a single favour, but they both knew that this favour would save or destroy lives some orn in the future. He could only hope that Jazz would use it wisely.

Prowl bid him goodbye and was driving on Corridor Twelve klicks later. On the now empty table stood two energoncubes still untouched.

**Author's Note:**

> Public Service Announcement:  
> The Challenge of ProwlxJazz Livejournal is now in the prompt collecting stage and can be accessed from AO3 or Livejournal.  
> LJ: http://prowlxjazz.livejournal.com/959854.html?view=4190830#t4190830  
> AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/anniversarychallenge16/profile  
> The Challenge is to write a story using a cliche and the number 9 - this is the 9th anniversary challenge after all. ^_^ Deadline is the 30th September.  
> Accepted will be everything from stories 500 words and longer, fanart, photo stories, etc.


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